


Rut

by yeaka



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: Hyrule Warriors, The Legend of Zelda: Skyward Sword
Genre: M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-04-28 01:59:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14439048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Ghirahim’s won, but something’s missing.





	Rut

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Warning, though this is set in Hyrule Warriors, it contains Skyward Sword spoilers.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Legend of Zelda or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

His tongue is still exploring his mouth as he slips inside his bedroom—an ugly little thing tucked near the bottom of the castle. The ally’s quarters are abysmal, but the lingering taste of _blood_ makes up for that. Most of the simple creatures that he’s slain—the petty bokoblins and lizalfos and other such under-whelming beasts—taste utterly despicable. But it’s still _blood_ , and some of it’s his own delicious fluids—in the rush of the battle, he must’ve bitten his beloved tongue.

There’s that, at least. The taste of _victory_. Ghirahim savours it, craves it, luxuriates in the feeling. He leans back against the hard wood of his bedroom door and tosses his head back. When he shuts his eyes, he can still see the carnage. The allies won again, as they always seem to. Perhaps it was a wise move to switch sides.

But another, greater part of it feels _hollow_ , and that always chills Ghirahim’s mood. His eyes peek open, gazing about the lackluster quarters with bitter intensity—it’s all so very _empty_. He must wallow in that victory alone. There’s no one to boast of it to. The princess he vaguely serves already knows her triumph, and her hound will have given her all the details. Ghirahim wouldn’t have wanted to be _hers_ anyway. But he wants _someone_ to report to. _Needs it_. His chest clenches, though he’s sure he has no heart like the sweet, pulsing organs that he’s pulled out of lesser beings. He still knows what it means.

He misses his master. Or at least, misses having one.

With a disappointed groan, Ghirahim lets his knees collapse, lets his lithe figure slide down to the floor. He sits there, slumped and boneless, in an unfulfilling afterglow. Eventually, he bites the fingers of one glove to tug it off his arm. He sheds them both forlornly, wishing so desperately that it were someone else stripping him. He could make them disappear in a flash of shimmering diamonds, but he’d rather have someone pinning him down and ripping his lovely clothes away, scraping at his body until it was left raw and open. His legs spread at the thought of it, thighs twitching and parting wider. His hands rise to thread back through his perfect hair, nails dragging sharply across his skull. The tingling sensation could never be enough. He wants _claws_ digging into him. 

All the strongest warriors share similar quarters in this enormous castle. That’s why he joined them in the first place—not their silly ideals of _peace_ , but the better-looking prospects. The _stronger_ ones. They always win. And Ghirahim wants a winner. He wants someone even more fabulous than himself, someone he can surrender to, someone he’d be proud to aid in battle—that he could unleash his _true_ form for, and nestle into their sword-calloused hands.

As one hand dips to slide across his chest, Ghirahim ponders his options. His fingers peek beneath the fabric, teasing one dusky nipple as his body arches into every touch, but it does him little good—he already knows he’s beautiful. He needs someone else to appreciate that beauty. But there are so few _worthy_ of a demon lord.

The dragon, perhaps, might be interesting. Ghirahim’s always loved the tantalizing dread of _fire_. And he likes the look of a broad chest covered in shining armour, of sharp features shrouded in shadows. But that dragon fell so easily to another warrior—a small, simple soldier, no better than any peasant. 

But such a _pretty_ peasant. Just picturing Link sweating in his taut uniform makes Ghirahim lick at his lips. His throat releases a low cackle at the thought of Link’s handsome body bereft of any uniform—of any clothes at all. He’s such an infuriating, lowly little creature. But he’s gorgeous beyond words, and his strength is unparalleled.

And he knows his way around a sword.

Ghirahim lets his hand run the rest of the way down his body, pausing between his legs. The evidence of his desire is undeniable. And tomorrow will be another battle, another conquest, another thrum of orgasmic bliss as they slaughter all those who oppose them. And Ghirahim doesn’t want to be left shuddering and unsatisfied again. 

He needs a _master_.

His mind’s made up. He creeps back to his feet and slinks beyond the door, off to honour a certain warrior with his legendary service.


End file.
